


Just Another Stranger, On a Plane

by jessethejoyful



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: M/M, airplane au, i'm too easily amused omg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2020-09-28 21:41:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20432873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessethejoyful/pseuds/jessethejoyful
Summary: One plane, two smitten imbeciles. What could go wrong?





	1. The Opposite of a Meet-Cute (Meet-Mad?)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm genuinely not sure how this came into existence, probably be about 4 chapters, not too long

**SIMON**

“Sir, I’m sorry, but we can’t allow you through the gate with that water bottle, I’m afraid -“ 

I look at the bottle in question and start slightly. “Oh shite, my bad, I thought I’d finished the thing already! One sec,” I say apologetically to the guard, and she watches me incredulously as I tip the bottle back and start chugging. When I finish, I tuck the bottle back in the side pocket of my backpack and beam at her. “Good to go?”

“Er, yes, sir…” 

Someone behind me snorts, and glance around to make eye contact with possibly the most handsome bloke I’ve ever seen in my life. He’s tall and thin, but broad around the chest and shoulders, with rich tan skin and sleek, jet-black hair.

And he’s curling his lip at me. 

“How uncouth,” he sneers, shaking his head. “What a horrifying display.”

I immediately start bristling. “Oi, watch it, mate. It’s just water, it’s not like I was chugging vodka or something.”

The guy shrugs his shoulders and jerks his chin at me. “Are you going to continue holding the line up all day? _ Mate _?” Face hot from embarrassment, I whip around, stomp through the scanner, and hurry to gather my things from the conveyor before the guy can catch up to me. 

I’m just slinging my bag over my shoulder as he steps through, and our eyes meet again. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but I turn on my heel and dash off before he can spit out whatever insult is next. (It’s not even remotely dignified, but I don’t give a shit. I’m not going to stand around to get verbally abused by some jackass.)

My fuming lessens somewhat after I stop into one of the coffeeshops inside the terminal. I’ve got a stack of freshly-baked scones, a paper cup of steaming tea, and an hour and a half before my flight is due to take off. It takes me more than a moment to find my gate, since I’ve never been in this part of the airport before. 

“Did you get lost, or are you actually as dumb as you look?” I freeze as I’m placing my food on a side table, my breath catching in my throat. I lift my head and find myself practically face-to-face with the prat. He’s sitting cross-legged across the aisle from me, a book perched on his knee and a set of expensive-looking headphones resting around his neck. “The look on your face tells me it’s the latter, poor dear.” 

“What the _ fuck _ ,” I hiss, standing straight and crossing my arms across my chest, “is your fucking problem? Are you _ following _me?” 

He quirks a perfectly shaped eyebrow at me. “If you recall, I was here well before you were. Because I’m capable of following the instructions on signs. And it does seem we’re here for the same flight,” he adds, nodding at the number over the gate closest to us. 

I do a quick scope of the seating area, but there aren’t any other open spaces around. “For fuck’s sake,” I growl under my breath, before I level my eyes at the bloke again. “Look. Can you just - I don’t know, leave me the fuck alone? I don’t know what I did to you to make you want to batter me with insults, but I don’t fucking need it.” I drop into my seat and rip open the packaging on my scones, and aggressively bite into one. 

“You didn’t,” he says after a long pause, long enough that I forget what I said. 

“Didn’t what?” I say thickly, then suddenly I recall. “Oh. Then what the fuck do you keep bashing me for?” 

His eyes do a once-over of me, and I’m left feeling like I’ve just been laid bare. I’m very aware of my shitty traveling clothes: a loose-fitting pair of maroon joggers and a ratty old Smith’s t-shirt, with my hoodie tied around my waist - while he’s dressed like he’s about to go out for some kind of fancy party, in a ribbed turtleneck and massive coat, slim-fitting jeans, and a pristine pair of leather boots, the ensemble completely in black. 

“I like your t-shirt,” he says, as if that answers my question, and then he goes back to his book. I can feel my mouth hanging open, so I shove it full with another bite of scone. (What the actual fuck is up with this guy?)

He doesn’t say anything for a long while, and my hackles are slowly lowering. But when I see him look up at me from my peripheral vision, I immediately tense up again. 

“What’s your name, then?” he asks, as if we’re just having a casual conversation. I stare hard at him. 

“Why d’you wanna know?” I snarl, unable to keep the roughness out of my voice. This time, he raises both his eyebrows at me. 

“Well, in my internal monologue, I have been referring to you as ‘moron’, but as I’m assuming - or at least, hoping, - that isn’t your name, I suppose I was merely curious.” He holds up his book for me to see - American Gods, by Neil Gaiman. “And I’ve just finished my book, so now I’m terribly bored.” 

“What are you hoping for? That I’ll dance for you? Perform some magic, maybe?” 

He shrugs. “Whatever you’ve got, really. A name would be a good place to start.” 

I force myself to breathe deeply, in through my nose and out through my mouth in a loud rush. “Simon.” 

“I see.” My eyebrows furrow at this response. 

“You see _ what _, you prat?” 

Another shrug. “No idea. I’m Baz.” 

“What kind of a name is _ Baz _?” 

“It’s a nickname.” 

“For what?” 

“Like I’d tell you. You just called me a prat!” 

“Because you ARE ONE!” I practically shout at him, making more than a few heads in our vicinity turn to glare at me. He’s smirking. 

“You’re fun to mess with. Your face gets really red, like you’re going to explode. I’m waiting for the smoke to start coming out of your ears before I duck for cover, though.” 

This has got to be the most insane interaction I’ve ever had with another human, possibly ever. Including the time a man attacked me at the trolley station, screaming that he had to claim the bounty that was supposedly on my head. 

“How about,” I grit through my teeth, “instead of continuing to pester me, you leave me the hell alone?” 

Baz seems to think it over for a minute, then shakes his head. “No, I don’t think I will.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and grins at me. It’s wicked and toothy, and I feel an actual chill on the back of my neck. “Tell me about yourself. _ Simon _.” 

“Just so you can have more ammunition to use against me? No thanks.” 

He sits back in his chair again, frowning at me like I’ve disappointed him. “Not even a tiny thing? Like - why are you going to Ohio?” 

I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you trying to profile me so that you can have me killed? Or are you going to kill me yourself?” This forces a surprised laugh out of him. I expected him to have a more refined laugh, because of his everything, but the sound is nasally and almost juvenile, like he can’t stop himself. 

“I’m not going to kill you. I’m just nosy.” 

“Yes, you are,” I say, lifting my eyebrows at him meaningfully and tapping my nose. His is impressively long, coming to a stop somewhere between his eyebrows. I want to yank it half an inch down to put it in the right place.

“Wow. You’ve known me for less than two hours, and you’re already making fun of my nose. I’m hurt.” His voice is deadpan, but I can see the corners of his mouth twitching, like he’s trying to keep himself from smiling. 

“No,” I say, starting on another scone, “you’re really not.”

“Eurgh. Can’t you chew with your mouth closed?” he says, sounding genuinely disgusted. 

I take another massive bite and very loudly chew in his direction, making as much of a show of it as possible. “No,” I say again, “I can’t.” His scowl turns into something almost ugly (as if this beautiful dickwad could be ugly) and he looks away from me, tapping away on his phone. 

Feeling validated, I pull my own phone out and see a few messages from my best friend.

Penelope [11:32]: let me know when you get through security!! 

Penelope [11:58]: si? did you make it through yet???

Penelope [12:18]: are you dead???!?!??!!!

I groan and hurry to type a response. 

Simon [12:33]: sorry pen. yes i made it thru. some asshole has been giving me shit this whole time so i forgot to check my phone sorry 

Penelope [12:34]: don’t pick a fight before your flight, simon, they might not let you board again

Simon [12:36]: i didn’t do shit this time!!!! this twat has it out for me, i swear to god!!!!

Penelope [12:37]: why’s he bothering you then? hasn’t he got anything better to do

I sneak a glance at Baz, but he’s still scrolling through his phone, not paying me a bit of mind. I sit up straight, uncross my legs, recross them, and quickly snap a picture of him. On my screen, the picture is a bit blurry, but gets the point across - he’s just as bored as I am. 

Simon [12:40]: [picture sent]

Penelope [12:41]: that doesn’t answer my question

Simon [12:41]: i think he’s just bored

Penelope [12:42]: weird. well i’m going to go back to sleep, give us a call when you land. love you si don’t use your fists use your words

Simon [12:43]: pen please don’t leave me alone with him

Simon [12:47]: pen omg please

Simon [12:58]: i hate you 

I’m tucking my phone into my pocket when Baz speaks. “You know, you should really ask permission before taking someone’s picture.” My face heats up, all the way to the tips of my ears. Busted. 

“Uh - I, uh - well -” 

“Wow, you can bluster like nobody’s business.” He sits back in his chair and tosses his shoulder-black hair back, and it’s the prettiest picture. “If you wanted my picture, I would have been happy to oblige.” His smirk is back, self-satisfied and smug. 

“I was just complaining to my friend about how obnoxious you’re being, figured a visual would help.” 

Baz leans toward me. “Are you sure it wasn’t just because you find me mind-bogglingly attractive, and wanted to save my face forever? Because if that’s the case, I’ll totally understand.” 

“Mind-bogglingly obnoxious, maybe.” I sink into my seat, horrified that he might be right. “Besides, you’re uh - you’re not really my type.” 

He looks at me for a long moment, his expression bordering on soft. “Hm. Well, that’s a shame, because you’re just _ my _type.” He looks back at his phone with a shrug.


	2. In Which Baz Loses All Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz and Simon get ready to board their flight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oop sorry it's been a min since I updated welcome to quarantine land

**BAZ**

I think I’ve actually rendered him speechless this time. I scroll aimlessly through my Instagram feed for a few minutes before I allow myself to glance up at him again. 

His face is positively beaming, every inch of visible (tawny, freckled) skin red as can be. He’s got his hand over his mouth like he’s trying to stop himself from breathing, and I’m actually concerned he’s going to pass out. 

“Are you alright?” I ask him, trying not to sound like I care. 

He’s working up to another bluster, that much is obvious. His mouth opens and closes several times, and he shifts a few different ways in his seat. “I - how do you - ?” 

“Use your words, Simon,” I sigh, watching him struggle to form a sentence. (I wonder then if he has a speech impediment and feel a little bad.)

There’s a beat before he says, in the meekest voice I’ve ever heard, “How do you just… say something like that?” He looks so uncomfortable that I actually take a little pity on him. 

“I don’t know. I’m just honest, I suppose. If I see a guy I think is fit, I’ll probably tell him. Or bully him for a while, just to see if he can take a punch.” I raise my eyebrows at him, and it doesn’t take him long to process that. 

“Oh.” And then, I swear to fucking God, he’s on like a light. His face splits in a massive grin just before he busts out laughing, loud and idiotic, and he renders  _ me _ speechless this time. “What are you, fucking  _ twelve _ ? You wanna kick me in the shins, maybe pull on my hair?”

I have to recover my senses. “Only if you’re into that.” 

I wouldn’t have believed it possible, but now his face turns an even more aggressive shade of red. He opens his mouth to reply just as the speaker overhead blares to life. “Good afternoon, British Airway passengers! Flight BA 1740 is ready to begin boarding, starting with our priority passengers and Executive Club members! After they’ve queued, the remaining passengers can join, and we’ll have everyone through in no time. Thank you for choosing British Airways for your flight today!” 

Simon watches me as I stand and adjust my jacket. “Guess you’re part of the Executive Club, huh?” I fix him with a look. 

“What makes you think so?” 

He snorts. “You just look the part.” His arms fold across his chest as he sits back, looking disgruntled. “Hope you have a comfy flight.” 

“Where are you seated then?” I glance over at the queue and then back at Simon. I’m trying not to imagine he looks so annoyed because he’s disappointed we’re not sitting near each other. 

“Somewhere in the middle, I dunno. Economy class, that’s me in a nutshell.” I purse my lips as I sling my bag over my shoulder, inching toward the line. Maybe he’s just mad that he's got a bad seat. 

“Well - I guess this is goodbye, Simon. It’s been nice talking to you.” 

He grunts. “It’s definitely been interesting.” His mouth twists into a small smile for a moment, but it’s gone and he looks away, and I head over to join the queue. I glance over at him a few times, but he won’t even look my way. When the economy ticket crowd joins the line, he doesn’t even glance at me once, staring firmly at the ground. 

I’m so busy trying to catch his eye that the stewardess has to ask for my passport twice. “Oh, my apologies,” I say, startled as I thrust it at her. She still smiles at me as she hands it back. 

“Have a lovely flight!” I stroll past her, losing sight of Simon completely as I start down the tunnel to the door of the plane. The flight crew is overly peppy and friendly, already trying my thinning patience, and I try to tune them out as much as I can as I settle in my seat. It’s not the ultimate seat (I paid for my ticket myself, rather than asking my father for assistance) but it’s still an upgrade for more leg space. 

I don’t expect to see Simon again, a disappointment I’m failing not to think about - but then I see him starting up the aisle, and my heart hits the floor. He doesn’t notice me, as I’m on the opposite row, but I see him head all the way to the back of the cabin and settle into a cramped window seat beside two people who look like American tourists. 

My brain starts to spin, since I know there isn’t much time to operate in. The seats on either side of me are so far empty. If the economy tickets are boarding, then there almost certainly are no more priority pass members to come. And if there are, there are other empty seats around that I’m sure they would move to. (I’m very convincing when I want to be. And I want to be.) 

The crew are busy at the front of the plane, preparing everything for takeoff. Now’s my chance. 

I follow the crowd to the back of the cabin, and Simon doesn’t even see me until I’m standing over his row. He looks up at me and nearly jumps out of his skin. I address the couple sitting in the aisle seats, putting on my nicest and most apologetic smile. 

“Pardon me,” I say, making my accent as posh and British as I can muster, “but I think something must have gone wrong with our tickets. You see, my boyfriend gets terribly motion-sick during flights, and we’re supposed to be seated up toward the front so he can get to the loo quickly - would you mind letting him out?” The couple moves quickly, fawning over us and hurrying to get out the pukey lad’s way. 

Simon stares at me hard for a moment, and I raise my eyebrows at him, waiting to see if he’s going to challenge me on this. But then he puts on a smile as well, thanking the couple and shuffling past them. I grab the bag I recognize as his from the overhead compartment and carry it with me back to my seat. He follows me, leaning in close when we reach the row. “Are you sure this is allowed? I don’t want to get in trouble.” 

“It’s fine,” I assure him, stowing his bag beside mine before closing the compartment back. “What do you prefer, aisle or window?” 

“Uh - the window, I guess,” he says mutely, and I gesture for him to get in. He slides into the seat with a look of amazement, staring down at his legs. “I - have room for my knees?” 

I sit in the seat next to him. “It’s golden, isn’t it?” He smiles at me, a truly genuine grin, and I feel it all the way to my toes. 

“Well - thanks, I guess. For coming to my rescue.” 

“Did you need rescuing?”

He thinks about it for a moment, then nods. “Yeah, the Americans wanted to talk to me about London but I eventually put my headphones in to tune them out. It was getting a little stuffy.” He cuts his eyes at me sheepishly. “And this seat is much more comfy. So - like I said. Thanks.” 

“You’re quite welcome.” We both fall silent, idly observing the others on the flight getting ready for takeoff. I was right, no one comes to claim the empty seat Simon is occupying, and the flight attendants go to close the doors. 

As the pilot’s voice warbles over the speakers telling us all to prepare for movement, I feel Simon tense next to me. I turn to look at him and see his face is devoid now of all color, his fingers gripping the armrests in a white-knuckled grasp. “Oi, you’re not really going to get sick, are you? I thought I was making a joke.” 

“I’m not going to get sick,” he says in a muted squeak, looking at me for a moment before dropping his head. “Planes just make me really - nervous!” This last is an exclamation as the plane jerks into motion, rolling forward on the tarmac. I hesitate for just a moment, before I reach over and take his hand, winding my fingers through his and squeezing once. I’m expecting him to sock me for it, but he just squeezes back and hunches his shoulders. 

I look out the window over his stooped shoulders and watch the ground disappear from view. He’s got my hand in a vice-grip, and his palms are miserably clammy, but I’m not about to let go, he seems so genuinely afraid. There’s a couple of rough patches during our ascent, and I think he might actually break my hand, but before long, we’ve evened out in the sky and he finally relinquishes his grip. 

“Thanks - again,” he breathes, shaking out his head of golden curls. “I keep thanking you.” 

“Clearly because I’m such a benevolent being,” I say drily, watching him without shame. He owes me that much at this point, at least. 

Simon raises his eyebrows at me. “You know, I think you’re nicer than you try to make yourself out to be. You’ve done a couple of really nice things for me without any prompting, a total stranger to whom you owe nothing. What’s that about?” 

For some reason, this rankles me. I roll my eyes as obviously as I can and face forward in my seat again. “God only knows. I’ll control myself next time.” To make it even more obvious I’m in a mood now, I put a headphone in the ear facing him. I can feel him watching me, but he doesn’t say anything else or try to get my attention, just sits back in his seat and sighs. 

And I hate myself just a little bit more.


End file.
